


The devil's dance floor

by AwwwCoffee_No



Category: Black Widow (Comics), Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: All of the avengers at some point - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Pirate, F/M, caribbean
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-12
Updated: 2017-10-14
Packaged: 2019-01-16 08:12:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12338838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AwwwCoffee_No/pseuds/AwwwCoffee_No
Summary: "Well she took me by the hand I could see she was a fiery oneHer legs ran all the way up to heaven and past AvalonTell me somethin' girl, what it is you have in store, she saidCome with me now on the devil's dance floor"- Flogging MollyClint Barton is a crewman on a navy ship, and Natasha Romanova is a luckless stowaway. When she's captured and Clint finds a map that he can't read, he agrees to help her escape. Little does he know that they're fleeing into a life of piracy, adventure and hidden treasure.





	1. Secrets and Stowaways...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, Coffee here. This is the first chapter of a pirate AU I'm working on and I'm keen to see what you think of it.   
> I'm actually writing two separate clintasha AU's at the moment (this and Her little bird), and I hope to continue both of them concurrently. However, if you have any preference over the two, let me know -as I'll be diverting more time to whichever has the bigger fan base.   
> Okay, intro over - now enjoy!

_HMS Queen's Passage_

_1715_

The ship rolled as another wave hammered into her side. Below deck, all the cargo that wasn’t nailed down slid sideways with a loud screech. Clint Barton only narrowly avoided getting hit in the head with a sack of onions. Inside it was dark, almost too dark when his eyes were still adjusted to the daylight above deck. But he knew he had to get moving, so he picked himself up from the floor and stumbled forward.

The waves weren’t the biggest problem though, Clint reminded himself. The loud roar of cannon fire he heard a heartbeat later was indication enough. The boom of cannon fire was quickly followed by the splintering crack of a direct hit into the ships hull. Luckily it didn’t sound too close to the part of the ship that Clint was in.

“Excuse me,” he yelled, “Sir! Stark!”

There was no response, but he knew what he’d seen. Lord Howard Stark, guest of Captain Westlake himself and the only civilian on the ship, had rushed below deck at first sight of the ship wearing black sails and a Kraken on its flag. Now he peeled his eyes against the oppressive darkness and tried to spot any clue of the wandering noble.

Up above, he could hear the gun crews stomping across the deck in their rush to load the cannons and get them ready. He cringed, he should be up there – bringing water to the men so that they could cool the long guns before each reload.

When no sign of Stark presented itself, he moved himself to the last and final room. It was a cargo hold, smaller than previous room and piled high with rope, barrels, cloth and other supplies. And there, bent over a stack of cloth and rope, was the Lord himself. Wearing a stunning long coat and a sturdy brown tricorne, he had both a pistol and a sword holstered in his belt but hadn’t noticed Clint yet.

“Sir!” the youngest member of the crew yelled as another volley of cannon fire erupted above deck, “Sir!”

The patriarch of the Stark family shot to his feet, looking like a priest caught in a whore house. He quickly stepped in front of the rolls of cord he’d been hovering over before he remembered his station. Hotly, he snapped, “What do you want boy?!”

Clint got to his senses enough to give a smart salute, “Captain needs you on deck Mister Stark!”

God knew, no one else on the ship knew how to work any of the contraptions Stark had brought aboard. Clint himself didn’t even know what half of them did, but considering that he’d heard they were for the ship’s defence, it seemed prudent to have them up and running as soon as possible. Cannon’s fired once more in the distance.

Annoyance crossed the man’s face, before he snapped, “Fine, go. Tell the captain I’ll be there…”

_Boom!_

Clint Barton never did get to find out when Howard Stark would be returning to the captain because at that moment a cannonball came crashing through the wall. Clint dived for the floor as splinters and smoke flew over him. His hands wrapped protectively around his head, and his ears ringing, he counted to ten before he dared look up.

The room was covered in splinters and smoke. The ball had blown a hole clean through one side of the hull and left another on the opposite side. He lurched to his feet when his eyes found Howard, but he didn’t bother checking to see if the man was okay. He didn’t need to.

Where the man's head had been was just a pulpy bloody mess. He was irrecognisable, save for the fine coat his corpse was still clothed in. Howard's blood had redecorated half of the cargo hold a deep dripping red.

Clint, his ears still ringing, crossed himself and said a prayer to a god who never seemed to listen. He needed to report this. But something held him back.

A niggling itch in his gut that his mother had warned him about once, _“The Barton boys never can leave well enough alone, it’ll be your ruin.”_ Personally, he’d always thought it’d be his Irish heritage that would be his downfall, but he had to admit as he crept towards the spool of spare rope that Stark had been messing with, she might’ve had a point.

The rope was rolled tightly in a navy loop that rose to the height of Clint’s shin. It had a dark space in the middle like a volcano, and on a hunch, Clint stuck his hand in it to feel around inside. It took a moment to find it, and when it did his brow furrowed in confusion.

Just as the ship was rocked by another wave of cannon fire. Fortunately, it hadn’t hit this part of the ship, and Clint’s hearing had returned just in time to hear…

Was that a squeak? Clint froze, turning around. But there was no one in the room he could see, and he was tempted to ignore it as his mind playing tricks on him. Forgetting about it would be easy.

Only, Clint was certain he’d heard something.

He quickly stepped to Howard Stark’s body and scooped up the pistol. He aimed it around the room, “Hello, who goes there?”

He was met with silence, save for the rumble of cannons; theirs this time, not the enemies. The deck swayed beneath his feet with the recoil, and he tightened his grip on the gun. It was a duelling piece, incredibly well balanced with beautiful engravings on the handle. He aimed it to where he thought the noise had come from; a pile of barrels stacked high in the corner, with a net tied to them to keep them from rolling.

“Alright, this is your last chance. Come out now, or I swear to god I’ll… I’ll…” when nothing would come to him, he pulled the hammer back; cocking the gun with a loud _click!_

Immediately, a pair of hands shot up. “Alright, alright,” the voice was deep and heavy, and musical in a way that only a girls could be, “what are you trying to do? Kill us all.”

When the girl stepped out, Clint almost reeled. She was beautiful, all pale skin and red hair the colour of fire, wrapped up in a blue dress. She couldn’t have been any older than he was, and if his jaw dropped open like a fool’s, it was only because he hadn’t seen a woman in so long.

She was glaring at him. “Are you thick in the head,” she snapped, “put the bloody gun away before you kill us all.”

That brought Clint back to his senses, and he frowned, tightening his grip on the weapon instead. It was aimed right at her chest. “Jaysus woman, do you think I’m daft. I’m not dropping anything ‘till you tell me who the hell you are and what you’re doin’ on the ship.”

The look she gave him could have scared Davey Jones himself, and Clint swallowed. Instead of answering, she pointed behind her – at the barrels she’d been hiding behind. “You fool, can’t you read – that’s fucking gunpowder, and you’re thinking of shooting me. Great idea genius, if you miss you’ll be sending the whole ship to kingdom come.”

Clint almost stepped back in the face of the girl's verbal onslaught. He was the one with the gun, and yet she made him feel like he was the one facing the barrel. He allowed himself to glance at the barrels she’d pointed too. They were all reasonably small, small enough to carry and painted black with white words stencilled on the side.

He was too embarrassed to admit that she was right; he didn’t know his letters. But he didn’t need to read to recognise them as black powder barrels. One spark and he and half the ship would be vaporised in a fiery blast. If the cannonball that killed Howard Stark had come in three hands lower…

To save face he simply shrugged and said, “That’s why I don’t miss.” The redhead raised an eyebrow at his bravado. But even as he said it, he was lowering his weapon inch by inch.

It was at that point they heard footsteps outside the door a second before it burst open and three men came in. Two of them were midshipmen, big arms and broad back carrying clubs. The third Clint recognised as Lieutenant Hastings who froze as he walked through the door.

The lieutenant took in the scene; the redhead girl standing with wide eyes, Clint pointing a pistol at her and the owner of the said pistol lying down in a pool of blood, bone and brain. The girl looked relatively clean for someone who must have spent the better part of a month hiding below deck, while Clint and the rest of the room were covered in blood. The boy looked like he’d stepped out of hell itself.

At the officer’s stare, Clint straightened and stammered out, “Sir, I caught her hi-.”

“Quiet!” Hastings snapped, and Clint shut his mouth smartly, “What the hell happened to Stark?”

“Cannonball, sir,”Clint blurted out.

“And you took it upon yourself to relieve him of his pistol?” Sheepishly, the cabin boy looked as if he was about to make an excuse, but was cut off by Hastings again, “Silence, we’ll let the Captain deal with this.”

The girl who’d been content to keep silent and watch the discussion, looked surprised and Clint couldn’t blame her. It almost looked like she was going to get away unpunished.

Until Hastings barked out, “And bring the stowaway as well. Captain, will want to see her too.”

That was it then. The pistol was snatched from Clint’s hands, and the midshipmen grabbed him and the redhead by the arm before marching them up to the deck. As they climbed out of the hatch, Clint couldn’t  help scrunching his eyes against the sudden sunlight.  Blearily, he stared around at the deck of _the HMS Queen’s Passage_ in shock.

It was unrecognisable. Paint that had been fresh when they left Portsmouth was now blasted with shrapnel and blood. Parts of the gunwale had been blasted away, and the sails were tattered with ragged holes. Clint was careful where he placed his bare feet to avoid splinters and the bodies of the dying and dead. But the battle was over, and the ship was nowhere in sight. Hopefully, they’d been sunk or were chased off with their tail between their legs.

They were marched through the crowd of crewmen who’d survived the battle that was awaiting their next orders. Clint didn’t miss how their eyes clung to the stowaway as she walked past. Hastings lead them to the back of the ship, where the Captain’s quarters were located. Two voices could be heard coming from within the open door.

“…Captain, I realise that repairs are in order, but we’re still three days out from Port Royal and deep in pirate waters. This whole archipelago is infested with them. If the _Winter’s Sailor_ decides to come back for a second attack, we’re done.” Said a voice that Clint recognised as one of the other officers, Mason. His throat dried, Mason had a stick up his arse and a meaner streak than Lieutenant Hastings.

“Are you suggesting we just limp away because we’re scared of a couple of thrice-damned pirates?” And that was the Captain’s voice; a brute of a man, with a soft voice and hard eyes, elevated to leadership by his English blood and the silver spoon he was born with. He was also hard to predict, his moods swinging one way or another with the change of the wind.  “Bah, it’s no point arguing any of this until Mister Stark get here? He is the brains of the endeavour after all, why else do we keep him around. Where is the man anyhow?”

Hastings chose that point to clear his throat and knock on the doorframe. “Captain,” he said to announce their presence.

There was shuffling movement, and then the sound of footsteps on a wooden deck before Mason and Captain Westlake appeared in the doorway. His eyes scanned the scene before him, “What is the meaning of this lieutenant? And what is a girl doing on my ship.”

Hastings licked his lips before reporting, “It’s about Mister Stark sir, he’s dead. Cannonball, by the looks of it. Found the cabin boy and the girl down there too – the boy had procured Stark’s pistol and was about to shoot her.”

Clint made a motion to argue but kept his mouth shut. Speaking out of turn would only land him in more trouble than he already was. The Captain eyed him critically, “You found Mister Stark already dead, I presume?”

“No, Cap’n,” Clint stood a bit straighter under the officer’s scrutiny, “I found him just before. I was fetching him to the deck, as ordered and found him in the cargo hold. Just before the shot came through and killed him, dead as dead can be… sir.”

“Hmm, and the girl?”

Clint swallowed, and risked a glance at her – she was glaring. “Heard someone sneakin’ about, sir, so I grabbed Mister Stark’s pistol and ordered her out. Planned to keep her prisoner until someone came along, which Lieutenant Hastings did,” he explained, before adding another “Sir” for good measure.

Captain Westlake studied him for a moment before turning his attention to the girl. “What is your name girl?” he asked with a voice that brooked no argument.

Still, the redhead jutted out her chin in defiance, and for a moment Clint thought she’d refuse to answer. But then, as the captain’s face started to flush in anger she said, “Natasha.”

The captain took note of the foreign name and the husky quality of her voice. “You’re not English are you, Natasha? Where are you from? Eastern Europe I suspect.”

“Russia,” the girl shrugged, and Clint Barton’s eyebrows rose – he’d never met anyone from Russia before.

“We left England nearly a month ago, Natasha. You’ve been hiding in the hold all that time?” the captain said it like they were just making polite conversation, but Clint could feel the intensity of the man radiating off him in waves. Over his shoulder, Mason was listening intently, and Clint didn’t like the look of his eyes. With an effort, he turned back to the conversation; Westlake was asking, “And you didn’t have any help?”

 _Ah_ , Clint thought, _the captain wants her accomplice_. But instead the girl – Natasha – shrugged, “Didn’t need any.” She said it with such confidence and bravado that Clint almost smiled at her spirit. The lass had balls.

“I see,” Westlake hummed thoughtfully. He paced a moment, before speaking loudly enough for all to hear, “In my experience, there are only three reasons for a young girl to stowaway aboard one of her Majesty's ships sailing half a world away. One, she’s running away from her womanly duty of marrying the man her father chose for her. Two, she’s running from the law. Or three, she’s been sent as a spy.”

Clint watched as the dread drained the girls face whiter and whiter with every sentence, like nails being hammered into her coffin. Before she could open her mouth to protest though, Captain Westlake was barking orders, “Take her to the bridge! We’ll hand her over to the authorities at Port Royal, then they can ship her back to England to face retribution. Now, if that is all?”

The girl looked horrified as they started dragging her away, but Clint could only shake his head. Better her than him, anyway.

Which was exactly when Mason piped up, “Captain!” his voice almost sounded nonchalant, but the way he was watching Clint made his gut clench, “shouldn’t we address the issue of how the enemy ship got so close to us without detection?”

Clint froze, and he swore his face probably drained exactly the same way Natasha’s had as the Captain nodded. “Aye, Lieutenant Mason, you’re right. Who was stationed on watch?”

At first, the crew looked around between themselves, waiting to see who would be outed. Then, with Mason smiling the whole way devilishly, Lieutenant Hastings cleared his throat once more. “It was him, sir,” the lieutenant avoided Clint’s eyes, “Barton, the cabin boy. I assigned him the watch myself.”

With that Captain Westlake turned his attention back to Clint, an unreadable expression on his face. Softly he said, “Well, Mister Barton, do you have anything to say for yourself?”

Clint swallowed. What could he say? He had no excuse, it’d be the middle of the day with not a cloud in the sky. “Got distracted is all, sir. Won’t happen again,” he lied. If they knew the real reason, he’d be beaten to death.

The Captain considered him for a moment, and Clint hoped he’d been convincing. Eventually, he nodded, “Very well, boy. Twenty lashes to ensure it doesn’t happen again. Dismissed.”

“Aye aye, Captain,” Clint mumbled. His stomach was already churning at the idea of being whipped twenty times across his back.

In the end, he got thirty-three. They stripped him of his shirt and tied him to the mast, and that’s when Mason picked up the whip. Clint had prayed it would be Hastings, the fairer officer who’d give him his twenty but take no joy from it – might even hold back a little. Mason smiled as he unravelled the leather cord and gave his all into every stroke. Hell, if he killed the boy doing it, what did it matter, Clint was only Irish after all. It was all Clint could do to bite his tongue to save himself the indignity of crying out.

When the 16-year-old boy managed to get through his allotted twenty, he felt a small bit of pride in himself. Mason however just snarled and continued, whipping him again and again. When Hastings tried to stop him, he just growled back something about breaking the boy’s defiance. Clint knew the real reason was that Mason like to hear his victims scream and he took Clint’s silence as a challenge.

He got to lash number twenty-seven before he buckled, his feet giving way beneath him and he finally let loose a shriek of pain. He didn’t need to look behind him to see the satisfaction on the man’s face. Job complete, Lieutenant Mason gave him five more for good measure, and Clint screamed all the way.

Clint was untied, and his shirt returned to him before the lieutenant ordered him to scrub the deck as further punishment.

He didn’t argue, his back stinging with every movement of the brush against the deck. His shirt was intolerably painful and soon bloody, and it was late at night before Hastings finally declared the job finished and ordered him to get cleaned up by the surgeon before turning in.

An hour later he stumbled below dek and made for the small blanket lying unoccupied in the corner. Everyone that wasn’t on watch was either drinking or already asleep, but he had a little privacy in the dark corner. He tenderly lowered himself until he sat leaning against the wall, and let a hiss at the contact against his wounded back. The cuts were deep, the ship’s doctor told him, but he didn’t bother trying to lower himself into a more comfortable position, he knew he wouldn’t find one.

Instead, he moved his hand slowly so that it was hidden by his knees and opened it. He looked down at the thing he’d clutched in his fist tightly this whole time, through the whipping and the interrogation before, ever since he’d stolen it from the spot Howard Stark had hidden it. It was a roll of paper, smaller than his own hand.

He quickly unravelled it and stared at it. Even in the darkness, he could still make out the letters and numbers and lines that depicted a handful of islands. He sucked in a breath; he didn’t have to be able to read to know he was holding a map.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So what did you think?  
> Leave any comments, criticisms or corrections in the comments and I promise to get back to you ASAP.


	2. The great escape...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey people, the second chapter of Devil's Dance Floor is here. Hope you enjoy, and I'd love to hear your thoughts on the fic.

Natasha felt miserable, more miserable than she had the entire trip. For almost thirty days she’d been hiding in the cargo hold of the _Queen’s Passage_ , hungry and alone. And yet she’d never felt more claustrophobic then she did now, trapped behind the iron bars of the brig. There were a cot and a bucket to relieve herself in, but that was it.

As she sat on the cot, clutching her knees to her chest, she seethed about her capture. She’d been so close too, a couple more days and they would’ve docked in Port Royal, where she could have slipped ashore; free and a whole world away from her old life.

But instead, that blond baffoon, the ship's boy, had caught her. Next thing she knew, she was being dragged out on deck for the world to see before being imprisoned in here. She glowered at the two marines guarding her, their rifles held rigidly at attention. At least the bastard who exposed her had got his just deserts – a whipping that she’d heard even from below deck.

She hadn’t felt any pity as she’d listened to the sound _thwack_ of the whip hitting his back or even when he started screaming into the wind. Served him right. But that had been hours ago, and nothing had happened except for the change of the guards.

There was the creak of a floorboard as someone climbed down below. Natasha didn’t bother looking up, whoever it didn't matter.

She heard the rustle of clothing as one of the guards stepped forward to acknowledge the intruder, “Halt boy, what are you doing here?”

“Captain sent me,” at that she looked up because she recognised the voice. Speak of the devil, wasn’t that the saying. The boy, Barton, was standing at the bottom of the ramp that leads down to the prison area of the ship. Natasha was only a little satisfied to see he looked miserable, wearing the same pants cut off at the knee and sailors shirt and no shoes. Blood had soaked through the back of the shirt, and he looked so weary and tired that Natasha was almost tempted to feel sorry for him. Almost. “They're serving an extra ration of rum to the crew in the mess because of the battle today. Mason told me to relieve you. Apparently, the extra rum is for everyone but me,” he shrugged sort of helplessly.

The guards eyed him for a moment, clearly unsure how to react. Then one of them softened, “the lieutenant is really giving you the run around isn’t he, lad?”

Barton just shrugged again, like it was something that couldn’t be helped, “Aye, well you know Mason. Always, was a mean whore’s son.”

“Don’t let him catch you saying that boy, or a whipping will be the least of your worries,” the other guard said even as they nodded in agreement. Then they took a  pointed look at Natasha in her cell, "You sure you’re going to be alright watching her, lad?”

“Oh please,” the boy puffed his chest out, “you think I can’t handle one lass locked behind iron bars, Jack? I don’t know which hurts worse, ma back or ma pride.”

At that, they all chuckled, even as Natasha silently glared at the youth. Eventually, the soldiers shrugged, moving to leave, “Alright mate, she’s all yours. We better get up there before they run out of grog.”

Clint knuckled his head as they walked past, watching them walk up to the deck.

The moment they were out of sight he turned to her and moved to the left wall. She expected him to gloat, to remind her of how he’d caught the ship’s stowaway. Instead, standing taller than when he’d walked into the room, he marched over to the keys hanging on a nail in the wall and took them down. Natasha’s blood chilled, she’d heard stories of what guards did to pretty young women in prison and just knew he had the same idea.

Which is why what he said next shocked her.

“What was that?” she asked.

He rolled his eyes, “I said, do you want to get out of here or not?”

She stared at him, surely this was a trick of some sort. Some joke at her expense. But his face remained serious, and when she hesitated he asked again, “Well, do ya?”

“Of course I do,” she hissed, “what’s it to you? You’re the one who got me locked in here.”

He had the decency to look ashamed at least. Then he went back to whispering, holding the key inched away from the bars, “Listen, okay, I’m getting off this ship, tonight. But I figure, you’re pretty smart, right; hell you managed to stay hidden for an entire month, and I can’t escape on my own. So, we’re gonna have to help each other, deal?”

Natasha blinked at him, he wanted to get off the ship too? Then she narrowed her eyes, suspicious. She didn’t know his angle, and he had to have one. He certainly wasn’t telling her everything. Maybe it was a trap, maybe he planned to sell her out. To the authorities or even slavery; she’d heard of people doing that.

But he was offering her a way off this ship, which meant he had to have a plan. Unless he was dumber than he looked. There was really no other way out of it, she had to agree – or wait until they got to Port Royal and threw her on a ship back to England. She shuddered.

“Fine, we have a deal,” she gritted out. Worst case scenario, she’d betray him the moment they were off the ship and dump him in the ocean. The thought brought her a little comfort as he got to work unlocking the cage, having her own plan was a comfort.

He swung the gate open as quietly as possible. “Okay,” he whispered, “I’ve got a rowboat already waiting on the starboard bow; we hop aboard and cut the line tying it to the ship. Float away in the night, they won’t be able to see us until morning, and by then we will be long gone.”

Natasha could only nod, Barton said it with such confidence that she felt a flutter of hope. It actually sounded like a pretty smart idea, but she wasn’t going to tell him that. Instead, she snarked, “Well what are you waiting for, lead the way.”

“Oh yeah, right. Follow me,” he said before turning around and creeping up the ramp the guard had disappeared up. They found themselves on the deck, which looked completely different out of daylight. There was the occasional lantern, but most of the ship was clad in darkness. Above them, the rolled up sails looked like ghostly spirits perched among the rigging.

Clint kept low moving towards the front of the ship and to the right. The whole thing was going smoothly, and they’d almost reached the spot where she could see one of the lifeboats had already been lowered over the side when there was a noise to their left. Directly around the corner of some cargo crates they were sneaking past. Clint was immediately straightening to a walk that looked like he was simply taking an evening stroll on deck. Natasha quickly followed his example, just in time.

“Ho, who goes there?” A soldier, different from the ones that had been guarding her, asked.

Clint turned to him with an exasperated expression, “It’s me, Thompson. Clint.”

“And what’s she doing out of her cage?” the guard gestured to her with his chin. He’d stepped in front of them, blocking them off.

Natasha wasn’t sure if she was the one meant to be answering, but thankfully Clint didn’t miss a beat. “Seasickness,” he said, “brought her up here so she could chuck over the side.”

She had to admit, the ship’s boy had a knack for lying. The guard frowned clearly trying to decide whether to believe him. Finally, he crossed his arms over his chest and leant against the railing. The sea churned lazily below them, “Doesn’t she have a bucket in there for that?”

It was a good point. But Clint didn’t bat an eye, “Aye, but you’d be surprised how quickly she can fill up a bucket. I didn’t want to be emptying it every half hour.”

Natasha wrinkled her nose in disgust at the image that clawed its way to the front of her brain. But she had the wits to clutch her stomach when the guard’s eyes flickered to her again. She contorted her expression to make it look like she was nauseous, or at least she hoped it did.

But the guard was hesitating too long, and Natasha knew he wasn’t going to buy it. There were a million things wrong with their story, and he only had to choose one. So Natasha took the initiative, rushing forward. She grabbed the pistol in the man’s holster and kicked him high, squarely in the stomach. Shocked, he pinwheeled his arms for a moment trying to regain his balance, before he fell over the side. There was a yell and a splash, and then Clint was grabbing her by the arm.

“Jaysus woman, what’d you go -,” he stopped talking the moment he found the pistol barrel pointed directly at his face.

“Don’t touch me,” she growled and cocked the hammer. The irony of the situation didn’t go unnoticed by her, this was almost the reverse of their meeting in the cargo hold. She was vaguely aware of a distant cry of ‘Man overboard’ going up from someone that had heard the splash.

Clint furrowed his brow. “Do you really want to do this right ‘ere and now?” he growled back, even as he released his hold on her. Natasha knew it’d be easy to just pull the trigger and be done with him, she could easily make it to the boat without him. Hell, the fool had told her his whole plan anywho.

Then there was a much nearer shout, from Thompson in the water. He’d survived, “Help, the prisoner and Barton are escaping!”

“See what you’ve done,” Barton hissed before he started to run for the lifeboat, ignoring the gun still pointed at him. Natasha heard the pounding of feet on deck as crew answered the call. He was right, she knew. They could settle this another time.

So she swore and ran after him. By the time she arrived, he was already climbing down the side of the ship. In the water below, Natasha could just make out a lifeboat shaped shadow on the water.

When she made no move to follow him, he called to her, “Come on, hurry.” But all Natasha could think of, was the drop awaiting her if she slipped and fell. It wasn’t that she was terrified of heights, she just didn’t particularly like them. But still she steeled herself, an act made no easier by Barton’s repeated ‘Hurry’s and the thud of footsteps rushing closer.

Barton had safely reached the lifeboat by the time Natasha plucked up her courage to start climbing over the railing. She had a leg over one side and was bringing the other over when it happened.

“Where do you think you’re going lass,” the man cried as he reached out and grabbed her by the arm, trying to stop her escape. It was one of the lieutenants; the meaner one who’d been talking with the captain in his quarters. But Natasha flinched violently away from him on instinct, out over the water, and the lieutenant, already overreached by trying to grab her went with her.

They both fell. Natasha felt a moment of plummeting, with the wind rushing through her ears and a scream piercing the air that she’d later recognise as her own. Fortunately, she didn’t hit the boat. Instead, she hit the water with a loud splash, and her head went under water.

Her attacker wasn’t so lucky. Natasha struggled to the surface in time to find Clint helplessly trying to balance the boat after the officer had fallen into it, headfirst. He was lying on his front, his neck bent at an impossible angle so that it looked at her over the boat.

“Well, what are you waiting for? Get in,” Clint called, already undoing the ropes tying the rowboat to the _Queen’s Passage._ Natasha kicked out with her legs in an awkward sort of doggy paddle, which wasn’t easy to do in a dress. All the while, the corpses lifeless eyes seemed to watch her accusingly.

Clint hauled her bodily into the boat when she reached it, forgetting Natasha’s earlier warning. But she couldn’t begrudge him too much; she was cold and wet, and it was at exactly that moment that the crew located them. Up above there was a lot of yelling and pointing as half a dozen heads came into view.

Her accomplice was frantically trying to undo the last rope tying them to the bigger ship when one of the silhouettes above pointed at them. There was a loud _CRACK_ of a gunshot, and the two of them dropped to their bellies. The musket ball whizzed by them and splashed down a foot from their boat.

As if opening the floodgates, more shots followed. Thankfully, none of them had yet found their mark. But they would eventually and that last line was still annoyingly preventing them from ghosting away on the current. 

Once again it was Clint who took the initiative, turning to the corpse in the boat with them, he tugged something from the bodies waist and raised it at their shadows firing at them. It was a flintlock pistol. He fired it without hesitation, a tongue of flame bursting from the barrel.

Even in the darkness, Natasha could still make out the fine spray of bones and brain as his shot found it’s mark in one of the shooter’s skulls. The rest of the shooters all ducked instinctively, and Natasha used that moment to lurch forward and pull the knot apart with her bare hands.

Almost immediately they started to drift away from the ship's course, but Clint didn’t let up. He turned back to the lieutenant's body and started rifling through his uniforms pouches for more shot. Meanwhile, Natasha’s own stolen pistol still lay in her hands. But it was dark, and they were too far away for her to have a shot at hitting them. Next thing she knew, Clint had located the missing ammunition and was hurriedly loading his gun with shaking fingers.

When he finally stamped down the powder and shot, they’d already drifted eight boat lengths away. The crew of the _Queen’s Passage_ were still firing down at them, but their shots were wildly missing the mark. They couldn’t see the little rowboat in the moonless night, and the gap was only increasing. Clint fired again, before dropping the gun.

He picked up both oars and began to row. Natasha watched him for a moment, before moving beside him and gesturing for one of them. If he thought she was afraid of a little hard work when their lives were on the line, he was deeply mistaken.

He gave her a long look and Natasha waited for the inevitable chivalry speech. Instead, he simply shrugged and handed her one of his burdens. It took her a while to find her rhythm, but when she did, she pulled the oar in long movements – stretching her body and contracting it. Beside her, Clint did the same.

They rowed and rowed until they no longer ducked each time a shot was fired at them. Eventually, her muscles burned, and the ship had finally faded to light on the horizon, but they still didn’t stop.

 

They rowed for another hour until they could no longer ignore the fatigue in their arms and they were alone on an endless sea. Natasha was sore and freezing, but she didn’t want to give in before the former ship’s boy did. But when Clint was the first to stow his oar, Natasha hurried to do the same. He was muttering to himself under his breath, curses and prayers in equal measures. Clearly, he wasn’t happy with how their escape had gone.

It was this distraction that allowed Natasha to get the drop on him. She lurched to the other side of the boat and grabbed the pistol she’d stolen; the one she had yet to shoot. Without hesitation, she pointed it directly at his chest.

To his credit, Clint wasted no time picking up his own and returning the favour. They sat like that, mirror images of each other on opposite ends of the boat.

“The hell are you doing Tasha?” he asked in that same voice he’d used on the ship. Like a teacher reprimanding a student; or a father scolding his daughter. It annoyed her almost as much as the nickname.

“Don’t call me that,” she warned. Her arm was sore, but she didn’t dare lower the gun.

“Call you what?”

“Tasha,” she hissed, “that’s not my name.”

“Fine. Now, why don’t we put the guns down and talk like civilised fucking people, aye?”

Natasha raised an eyebrow, “Oh come off it sailor boy, we both know you haven’t reloaded your pistol. Your gun’s empty.”

She could hardly see him in the dark, but she thought she saw him swallow with dread. Good. Instead, he said, “You don’t want to do this, Tasha. You need me.”

“No, I don’t. And I told you not to call me that,” she growled and angry, pulled the trigger.

The hammer clicked home, but it wasn’t the crack of a gunshot that rang out. Instead, it was a wet fizzle. Natasha frowned, confused. It took her a second before she remembered falling into the water, with the pistol. She looked up as it dawned on her would-be victim.

“Wet shot,” he said for them both, rage clouding his face. Before Natasha could respond, he’d leapt across the boat and knocked her over. He was on top of her, hands pinning her wrists to the boat’s floor. “What the fuck were you thinking?”

All Natasha could think of was the position they were in. He was going to rape her, it seemed – she’d been right not to trust him. She tried flutily to push him off, but he was heavier than her and used it to his advantage. So she spat at him, “Get off me, you bastard.”

He ignored her, “You realise we need each other, right? Now more than ever.”

She bared her teeth, “that doesn’t mean I'm going to sleep with you!”

Clint Barton recoiled like he was slapped, “Sleep with me? Oh, Jesus no woman, that’s not what this is about.” As if just realising their position, he lurched off her. Not before grabbing her gun though. Now he stood opposite her, his knees slightly bent to compensate for the rocking of the boat.

His voice was soft now when he said, “We need to trust each other, Natasha. I can’t be worried that you’re going to kill me the moment my backs turned. Otherwise, we’re both going to end up dead.”

There was something he was not saying; something that she’d missed. “What’d you mean before?”

“What?”

“When you said we needed each other, now more than ever?”

“You don’t see what just happened, do you?” He shook his head, “We killed two people, Mason and whoever it was I hit. If the English catch us, they’re going to string us up from the nearest yardarm and watch us kick.”

“Shite,” she said when she finally understood. They weren’t just an escaped stowaway and an AWOL sailor anymore. They were murderers, no better than pirates in the eyes of the king’s navy.

“Aye, Shite is right. So while everyone else in the world is out to kill us, as far as we’re concerned, we need to be able to trust each other. So let’s make a deal, you don’t try to kill me, and I won’t try to kill you. Do we have an accord?” he spat on his hand and held it out, intent to seal the deal with a handshake.

Natasha wasn’t as disgusted as she thought she’d be. She understood the significance. She slowly climbed to her feet, eyeing him. “I’m still not going to sleep with you,” she warned.

And he laughed, nodding his head. He made a cross over his chest, “Aye, upon my life I swear I won’t force myself on you. Deal?”

Somberly, Natasha nodded and spat into her own hand. “Yes, we have a deal,” she announced before shaking his hand.

They locked eyes for a moment before he frowned. He looked down at her hand. “Jesus Natasha, your cold as ice.”

Indeed, she was shivering violently, and her skin was almost blue in the moonlight. For the life of her, she had no idea when it had started. Natasha’d been too preoccupied with the escape and her confrontation with Clint to notice. It was her dress, she and Clint both realised simultaneously, it was still soaked through from her dip in the ocean, and the chill of the wind was cutting through her.

She knew what the normal remedy for this was; strip off her clothes and huddle by a fire for warmth. Which left a moment of awkward helplessness; they couldn’t build a fire on the wooden boat, and she had no intention of undressing in front of Clint.

The boy was smart enough to sense that and turned away from her. At the end of the boat, there was a small pile of supplies that Natasha hadn’t really paid attention to before. She assumed Clint had snuck them off the ship in preparation for their departure.

Clint rustled through it blindly for a moment, before pulling out a blanket. “Here,” he told her, “wrap yourself up in this. You… you’ll still have to get out of those wet clothes though.”

Natasha glared at him. Her disagreement loud in her silence. He held up two hands in surrender, “I won’t look, I promise. Or would you rather freeze to death?”

With that he turned around and sat down on his bench, facing out to sea. She was content to glare holes at the back of his head for another minute before she gave in to necessity. She slowly pulled the sopping wet dress off herself, exposing creamy white skin to the night sky; all the while watching the boy to make sure he kept his promise. True to his word, Clint didn’t once try to sneak a peek.

Once she’d wrapped herself in the thick wool blanket, careful to make sure she was fully covered, she settled down onto her side of the boat and cleared her throat, “Done.”

Immediately, Clint turned around and looked at her and the dress she’d left on the floor of the boat. He hummed, “See, that wasn’t so bad. It should dry once the sun comes up in the morning until then we should get some sleep.”

“If you suggest we huddle together for warmth,” she cut in, “I will beat you to death with an oar.”

“Aye, aye captain,” he said mockingly before shifting to make himself more comfortable, “I be warned well and truly now.” He paused for a moment, before adding, “Good night Natasha.”

Natasha didn’t think she’d be able to get any sleep on that dinghy little boat with a boy she still didn’t trust. But she surprised herself with how tired she was. Not long after Clint started his first light snores of slumber, she found her eyes closing and she drifted off.


End file.
